Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
Lincoln
I t had been several days, and the distance between Erika and me was becoming unbearable. My calls went straight to voicemail, and my texts were left unanswered. I’d given her enough space, hadn’t I? The early evening light was fading as I finished up a property showing, checking my phone one last time in the hopes that she might have reached out. Nothing.
That was it—I couldn’t take it anymore. Once the showing was done, I decided to head straight to her apartment. I’d wait in the lobby until she came down, or they’d have to call the cops to drag me out. She needed to know that I wasn’t going anywhere. We weren’t her parents, and I had no intention of turning into her father.
On the way to her place, I fired off another text, but as usual, it went ignored. The silence was eating away at me. What was going on in her head? When I arrived, the concierge was preoccupied with a couple at the desk, and I seized the opportunity to slip into the elevator just as a woman with a German Shepherd exited. The dog sniffed at my leg, its nose cold against my trousers, before its owner—a stern-looking older woman who reminded me of Mrs. Ducane tugged it away.
I jammed the close-door button repeatedly, willing the elevator to seal me inside. My stomach churned as it began its ascent to the eighteenth floor. I didn’t even know if Erika was home. She’d never given me a key to her place, unlike the one I’d handed her for mine. That should’ve been the first sign that she wasn’t as committed to us as I was. I dismissed the thought, focusing instead on the task at hand.
The hallway was quiet, my footsteps echoing on the dark tiles as I made my way to her door. I paused for a moment, gathering myself, then knocked. Inside, I heard shuffling, followed by a soft tap on the door, and then nothing.
“Erika, I know you’re in there. Open up so we can talk,” I called out, my voice firm but pleading. I waited, but the door remained closed. Frustration mounting, I knocked harder. “Please, sweetheart. I want to talk.”
After what felt like an eternity, I heard the locks turn with a metallic clank. The door creaked open, revealing Erika on the other side. She looked terrible. Dark circles under her eyes hinted at sleepless nights, and her makeup-free face showed faint lines that no twenty-seven-year-old should have. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, with loose strands framing her pale cheeks. Her outfit—a faded pair of pink sweatpants with a hole in the knee and a black t-shirt with a ripped collar screamed defeat.
“Why can’t you just leave me be?” Her voice trembled, on the verge of breaking.
I pushed my way inside as she weakly backed away, shutting the door behind me. I shrugged out of my black suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves, ready for the confrontation. But as I looked at her, all I saw was someone who had already surrendered.
“We’re going to talk,” I stated firmly. “You need to tell me what happened.”
“Why can’t you understand that this is just too much for me?” she replied, her voice cracking.
“Because it wasn’t too much until almost a week ago. Something happened last weekend, and I want to know what it is.”
“I can’t tell you.” The tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, tracing wet paths down her cheeks. My heart broke for her, over and over again.
I reached out to wipe them away, but she flinched, stepping back before I could touch her. It was exasperating.
“Enough of this shit,” I said, frustration lacing my words. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on. I’m in limbo here. Are we done?”
“When you hear what I have to tell you, we are,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with emotion.
Acid rose in my throat, a bitter taste that I forced down. Suddenly, I found myself teetering on the edge—half of me desperate to know, the other half wanting to flee. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. Steeling myself, I walked to the couch and sat down, patting the cushion beside me. She hesitated, then chose the far end of the couch instead, putting as much distance between us as possible. Another bad sign.
Erika wiped her eyes, took a shaky breath, and then, finally, began to speak.
“You’ve heard the name Foster before,” she started, her voice barely above a whisper.
I clenched my jaw so tight I thought my teeth might crack. “You said it in your sleep.”
“I lied,” she admitted, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I know him. In fact, I know him very well.”
“Who the fuck is he?” I growled, the anger bubbling up from somewhere dark.
“An old boyfriend… an old fiancé.”
I sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly finding it hard to exhale. “You were engaged?”
“Many years ago,” she said, her voice trembling. “I was young and stupid. He twisted me around his finger, and I fell for him hard. Foster Black was a senior when I was a freshman…”
I cut her off, disbelief lacing my words. “Did you say Foster Black?”
Her eyes flicked up to mine, a spark of surprise in them. “You know him?”
“I know of him,” I spat. “He’s an asshole. Son of privilege, spoiled bastard, heartbreaker.”
“Funny,” she mumbled, her tone bitter, “he said much of the same thing about you.”
“Excuse me?” I shot back, the venom in my voice unmistakable.
“Can I finish?” she asked, a pleading note in her voice.
“There’s more?” I demanded, incredulous.
She nodded, her face a picture of regret. “I haven’t seen Foster in years. I’d occasionally read about him in the tabloids, but that was it. He was living in Florida and other places. I didn’t want to know him after what he did to me.”
“What did he do?” I asked, leaning in, the anger simmering beneath the surface.
“He sucked me in and then dumped me,” she confessed, her voice cracking. “I could barely function. If it wasn’t for Morgan, I would’ve flunked out of college. Our relationship was intense, passionate. I was so young, and he told me things no one else had… even restored my faith in men. We went out all the time, he bought me gifts. A few months after we started dating, he asked me to marry him. I thought it was real, so I said yes.”
“Is he the reason why you can’t commit to me?” I asked, my voice laced with bitterness. “Did he ruin you?”
“Part of the reason,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “Part is my parents too.”
“I’m not him,” I swore, my voice rising. “I’ll never be him. I would never hurt you like that.”
She put up a hand, silencing me. “Let me get this out. You’ll hate me when I do.”
A wave of nausea hit me, and I swallowed hard against the bile rising in my throat. “I could never hate you.”
“Foster is back,” she said, the words dropping like a bomb, “…and he wants me.”
I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles turned white. The blood roared in my ears, drowning out rational thought. “You’re mine,” I snarled, the possessiveness in my voice shocking even me.
“I’m nobody’s,” she snapped back, fire in her eyes.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rage boiling within me. “Finish,” I urged, knowing the worst was yet to come. I braced myself for the final blow, the one I was certain would knock me off my feet.
“I had a showing on Saturday morning,” she began, her voice barely audible. “I met my client, but it turned out to be Foster. He…”
“Did he touch you?” I cut in, my voice a low, dangerous growl.
She looked down at her lap, her hands twisting together. The seconds ticked by in agonizing silence, and a tightness spread across my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Erika?” I repeated, the words burning in my throat. “Did he touch you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, so softly I almost didn’t hear it.
I barely stopped myself from jumping up from the couch. Rage coursed through me, a red-hot wave of fury. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“He kissed me,” she continued, her voice shaking, “and I kissed him back.”
My world tilted on its axis. “You kissed him back?” I echoed, disbelief and betrayal seeping into my voice.
Erika broke down, her shoulders shaking as sobs tore through her. “I kissed him because I still have feelings for him. After everything he did to me, they haven’t left.”
“I can’t believe what I’m fucking hearing!” I exploded, the anger finally boiling over. “You want to be a doormat for someone who broke your heart? I would never do that to you!”
“Find someone who won’t betray you,” she begged, her voice raw with emotion. “Someone good and decent. It’s not me, Lincoln.”
I stood, staring down at her as she buried her face in her hands. My heart shattered, the pain of her past-tense declaration ripping through me. I had to get away before I lost it completely.
Snatching my jacket off the back of the couch, I stormed past her, my vision blurred with unshed tears. She didn’t look up as I left, and that hurt almost as much as her words. I had to get away.
The minutes ticked by, putting time between my confrontation with Erika and my future. She betrayed me. I wondered if this was how Michael felt, again—how he felt seeing the woman he loved in the arms of another man. I was well aware of Foster Black’s reputation and his movements from one woman to another. He was a billionaire in his own right, having parlayed his trust fund into hundreds of investments and businesses.
He was also a formidable opponent for Erika’s love, and what’s more, they had history Erika and I didn’t. But Foster did something I’d never done: broke her heart. Yet in turn, she broke mine. Defeated, I went home and grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet, not bothering with a glass. The heat of early August was unbearable, but I didn’t care. I sat on the terrace in the approach dusk of the evening in my dress shirt and slacks, sipping directly from the bottle.
My phone rang several times, but I didn’t retrieve it from my pocket. My clients could go fuck themselves. I was having a crisis and had nothing left to give them. I drank until the bottle was half empty, the amber liquid swirling around as I drunkenly placed it on the tiles next to my chair.
Sometime after, I fell asleep as the sun sank below the horizon and the lights of Manhattan flicked on to stave off the impending darkness. When I woke, my neck was sore, and mouth dry as the Sahara. I was still drunk because I found it hard to navigate my way into my apartment. I tripped over the lip of the slider, almost bottoming out on the kitchen floor.
My cell once again went off and I had the urge to yank it from my pocket and throw it against the wall. It eventually silenced itself but went off a minute later. I fished it from my pocket and was greeted with nine calls and a multitude of texts. Apparently, Michael got wind of what went down. I had no idea how, but he was worried.
It looked like the Elliott boys were not only lucky in love, but unlucky. I called my brother to let him know I was alive.
“Michael…” I started.
“What the fuck is going on?!” he demanded, cutting me off. “Erika called me and said you were in trouble.”
I frowned, slurring out, “How the hell would she know?”
“You sound drunk. What happened?”
“It’s more sordid than your little tale. And yes, I am drunk.”
In the background, I heard street traffic and then the slamming of a door.
“Where are you? Working late?” I asked.
“Working late and on my way over.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
I steadied myself against the counter and worked my way around it to the refrigerator, snatching at the handle. I found a bottle of water, twisted off the top and slurped at it until it was empty.
“You’re fucked up,” he retorted. “You need me.”
“Save yourself, brother. You can’t save me.”
“I know how it feels.”
I scoffed. “What words of wisdom can you offer me?”
“None, but we can commiserate. You have so much to offer.”
“I don’t want to hear that bullshit. I wanted to offer what I had to Erika.”
“I’ll be over in a few minutes. I want to hear the entire story.”
“If you must.” I pressed the end button on my phone and used the wall to keep myself from falling as I made my way to the bedroom. I was sweaty and uncomfortable and needed to change my clothes.
“Foster Black?” Michael echoed, his voice carrying the same disbelief I’d felt when Erika first mentioned the name. “Jesus Christ.”
I took a sip from the glass of ice water Michael had set in front of me earlier, the cold liquid doing little to quench the bitterness in my throat. After the confrontation with Erika, I’d gotten drunk and ended up in my bedroom eventually. Michael had found me there and shaken me awake. Now, I was sitting on the chaise in my bedroom, wearing a pair of shorts, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of my thoughts.
“That’s what I said,” I muttered, shaking my head. “I thought I was a player, but I have nothing on that bastard. Erika was engaged to him years ago. She doesn’t want to marry me, but she gets engaged to Foster fucking Black.”
“Lincoln, that was a long time ago,” Michael said, his tone gentle but firm.
“Doesn’t matter,” I shot back, the bitterness seeping into my voice. “After everything he did to her, she still has feelings for him.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, the sincerity in his eyes making my chest tighten.
“I could use a drink,” I mumbled, the urge to drown my sorrows in something stronger than water clawing at me.
“You’re still drunk,” Michael warned, nodding at the glass in my hand. “Have your water instead.”
Grimacing, I picked up the glass and sucked a cube of ice into my mouth, rolling it around as if the cold would somehow numb the pain inside. It cooled my tongue, but the sudden brain freeze made me wince, and I spat the ice out into the glass with a frustrated sigh.
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, my voice raw. “How do I even begin to move past this?”
“Live your life,” Michael said, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze steady on mine. “Either she comes back to you, or she doesn’t.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I retorted, the words sharper than I intended.
Michael’s expression flickered with pain, but he didn’t look away. “I’ve accepted it. I love Morgan, but eventually, I’ll need to move on, and you should do the same.”
“Easier said than done,” I muttered, staring into the water as if it held answers.
Michael didn’t respond, and the silence between us grew heavy, filled with unspoken fears and the weight of our shared heartache. I knew he was right, but the thought of letting go felt like ripping my heart out of my chest.
I leaned back on the chaise, closing my eyes as the ache settled deeper into my bones. “Easier said than done,” I repeated, the words a hollow echo in the stillness of the room.
Eight days, six hours, and fourteen minutes. That was how long it had been since I last talked to Erika. No calls, no texts, no communication at all. The silence was suffocating, gnawing at me every second I wasn’t distracted by work. The only thing keeping me from unraveling completely was the constant grind—immersing myself in clients, hammering out deals. In the past week alone, I’d negotiated two sales that racked up almost three hundred thousand in commissions. But the money felt hollow. I would trade it all in a heartbeat if it meant I could have her back.
Whenever I wasn’t laser-focused on work, my mind inevitably drifted to Erika. Little things haunted me—the way her hair curled around her face like it was meant to frame her beauty, the husky tone of her voice when she spoke to me first thing in the morning, the way her skirt clung to her hips as she walked. I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that we were over.
For the first time in weeks, I decided to head into the office. William Reeder Real Estate was a powerhouse in the luxury property market, one of the top sellers of seven-figure homes across the five boroughs and Long Island. William, the man behind the empire, trusted me enough not to require my presence unless absolutely necessary. I made good money for the company, and he left me alone because of it. But today, I needed to escape the suffocating solitude of my apartment. It helped that I didn’t have any showings until the evening.
When I arrived, the office was quieter than usual. Most agents were in and out, driven by the demands of their clients. I was one of the few who had an actual office with a door. It might’ve been glass, but at least it provided some semblance of privacy. The furnishings were stark white, matching the walls, and my desk, made of smoked glass, reflected my legs beneath it. I’d dressed casually today—blue slacks and a light blue dress shirt—but I still felt out of place, like I was wearing a mask that didn’t fit anymore.
Settling in, I pulled my laptop from my black bag and started reviewing the listings for the evening. My clients were from Florida, and the wife had her heart set on something overlooking the Hudson River. I found several promising options and contacted the listing agents to finalize the details. As I squared away my business for the evening, a shadow fell across my desk.
I looked up to see William Reeder standing in the doorway, his tall frame draped in a charcoal gray Vera Lucci suit that probably cost more than some people’s monthly mortgages. His white shirt was open at the collar, giving him a casual yet commanding presence. With his shock of white hair and matching mustache, he reminded me of a tall, polished Colonel Sanders. His bright blue eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled.
“Lincoln, it’s been too long,” William greeted, his voice warm but probing.
“Sir,” I replied, standing up as a reflex. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
William waved off my apology with a dismissive hand. “I’m not questioning your absence. It’s obvious you’ve been working hard—your commission reports speak for themselves. I think you’re on track to be our top agent this quarter.”
“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace.
“I was wondering if you’re up for lunch today?” he asked, stepping inside and leaning casually against the glass wall.
I hesitated, knowing I wasn’t in the right headspace for small talk, or the kind of probing questions William was known for. “I’m really not,” I finally replied, searching for an excuse. “I have an appointment with my brother, Michael.”
William’s expression softened. “How is he? Adjusting to being home?”
“Yes, my mother’s ecstatic,” I said, trying to deflect.
“It must have been hard for your family,” he remarked, his eyes searching mine for something deeper.
“It was,” I admitted, though the weight of my own emotional turmoil was making it hard to focus. “But we’re on the mend.”
“Good to hear,” William said, giving me a nod. “Let’s schedule a lunch soon.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, the words empty even to my own ears. “Looking forward to it.”
William nodded again, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he turned to leave, closing the glass door behind him. Not that it mattered—anyone could still look inside and see what I was doing. I didn’t really have a lunch planned with my brother. I’d lied because William liked to pry, and I couldn’t afford to let him see how close I was to falling apart. I didn’t even trust myself to keep it together if he pushed any further.
As the door clicked shut, I slumped back into my chair, the weariness settling into my bones. I stared at the laptop screen, but the words blurred together. The office was too quiet, too empty, and the silence only amplified the ache inside me. I needed to get out, needed to do something—anything—to escape the gnawing sense of loss that was slowly consuming me.
But all I could do was sit there, pretending I was okay when everything inside me was screaming that I wasn’t.
“On a clear day, you can see for miles,” I remarked, my voice carrying the practiced enthusiasm of a seasoned real estate agent.
Estelle Kellerman, her eyes wide with excitement, practically pressed her nose against the tall windows overlooking the city. “Oh, I love the view! You can even see New Jersey from here!”
The Kellermans were a peculiar couple, lottery winners from Miami looking to escape the oppressive summer heat in New York. Estelle, with her bright pink suit and equally vibrant red hair twisted into a French braid, was a sight to behold. Unfortunately, her perfume was overwhelming—a cloying, cheap scent that made me subtly edge away from her as she gushed over the view.
Her husband, Milton, was no better. He sported the worst combover I’d ever seen, the few remaining strands of hair clinging desperately to his scalp, barely held together above his ear. His cologne was just as offensive, and the light blue seersucker suit he wore looked like it had stepped straight out of the eighties.
“You can, indeed,” I replied with a tight smile, trying to maintain my composure. “And if you’re here for the Fourth of July, you’ll have a perfect view of the fireworks.”
Estelle let out a squeal so piercing that I had to resist the urge to cover my ears. She pressed her nose against the glass again, practically vibrating with excitement. “Milton, we need to get this place! I want it!”
I glanced over at Milton, who was lazily chewing on a toothpick lodged in the corner of his mouth. He scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully before turning to me. “What’s the maintenance fee on this place?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“Thirty-six hundred a month,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral despite the impatience bubbling beneath the surface.
Milton let out a low whistle, raising an eyebrow. “That’s pretty steep for a place we probably won’t spend more than three or four months a year in.”
“Milton,” Estelle whined, drawing out his name in a tone that grated on my nerves.
I sighed, louder than I intended. My patience was wearing thin. “How much did you win in the lottery?” I asked, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
“Seventy-two million after taxes,” Milton said proudly, puffing out his chest a bit.
“Thirty-six hundred is a fraction of what you earn in interest each day,” I pointed out, my tone firm. “This place is a steal, and you’re not even carrying a mortgage.”
“Milton,” Estelle whined again, her voice even more insistent this time. Between her incessant whining, the overpowering perfume, and his cologne, I was nearing my breaking point.
“Can I offer less than asking?” Milton asked, scratching his chin again, as if deep in thought.
“Two six is a steal for this place,” I stated flatly, no longer masking my impatience. “The owner already lowered the price by a hundred thousand just two weeks ago.”
Milton hesitated for a moment, his hand pausing mid-scratch. Then he gave a slow nod. “We’ll take it. Anything for my baby.”
Estelle threw herself into his arms, and I took a step back, giving them some space. Their over-the-top affection was like nails on a chalkboard to my already frayed nerves. I let them have their moment, but it only served to remind me of what I was missing.
“Folks, we should get out of here,” I interjected, cutting through their display of affection. “Another agent has an appointment soon.”
They both looked at me, their faces mirroring each other in sudden panic. “Does that mean someone else might get this place?” they asked in unison.
I nodded gravely. “I suggest you make a full-price offer immediately.”
“Done!” Milton declared, his voice firm. “Can we do cash?”
“I’m sure that would seal the deal if another offer came in,” I confirmed, already mentally calculating the paperwork.
“Then let’s do that,” Milton said, the decision made. “We can even fly up for a weekend, maybe New Year’s Eve. Wouldn’t that be something?”
I nodded absently, already moving to check the apartment, making sure we hadn’t left any lights on. This sale had been too easy, and yet, as soon as I got the Kellermans out of my hair, I felt nothing but emptiness. The commission meant little to me. Money was a hollow victory without Erika. I missed her with every fiber of my being, and no amount of cash could fill the void she left behind.